Page 52 of When the Fake Snow Falls

Candace:

Your tally isn’t needed. I enjoyed every minute of our conversation.

Leaning my back against the counter, I watch the three dots as I wait for his next text.

“Still going to that party with him?” Amanda asks as she sweeps the floor near my station.

I glance up to catch her knowing smile. “That’s the plan,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows. “Miles is helping me pick out a dress for it tomorrow.”

“Ooh. I want in on this. You better send me pictures.”

“You’ve got it,” I say with a laugh.

Chase:

I don’t deserve you.

Such benevolence.

I shake my head at the words this man chooses to use.

Candace:

Only for you.

Chase:

Let me at least make it up to you with a coffee.

Southern Roast tomorrow?

As tempting as his offer is, Miles and I need to find a dress, and I have no idea how long that will take. I’m hoping it will bequick, but a lot depends on if the dress is waiting for me, front and center, or if the bitch is hiding.

Candace:

Can’t. Going shopping with Miles.

A woman walks in, who I suspect might be my next client. I haven’t met her yet, but Amanda greets her at the door and asks her who she’s here to see.

Chase:

Shopping?

What’s the occasion?

I know he’s fishing to see if I need a dress for the party Friday. If he finds out I need to buy something, he’ll offer to give me money for it. I don’t want his money. My disposable income may be new thanks to my recently acquired group of clients, but I can at least afford to buy a dress.

Candace:

We don’t need an occasion.

I quickly slip my phone back into the drawer when Amanda points the woman in my direction. Giving her my best smile, I hold out a hand and introduce myself.

Ms. Thompson ends up being another referral from Nicolette, who complains about the riffraff they’re now letting into the country club. She was nice enough, though. And the tip she left was almost half of what I charged for the cut and color. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, as Saturdays usually do. The constant bustle of the salon leaves me feeling both energized and drained. Some of the other stylists are still working when I pack up my things at 5:30 p.m. I know Saturday appointments are in high demand, but I try to avoid working late on weekends if I can help it.

Reaching for my phone in the drawer, I see there are a couple of new texts from Chase, so I take a moment to catch up.

Chase:

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